


Already Fallen In Love

by bellepeppertronix



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Multi, all-team fluff, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1373695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellepeppertronix/pseuds/bellepeppertronix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How our friends at Reliable Excavation Demolition spend a lazy Saturday morning in Gold Rush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Saturday mornings in Gold Rush were summer-bright and hot.  
The Scout woke up to the feeling of heat prickling his skin all over, feeling a sticky glaze of sweat all over already. There was a square of sunlight thrown through the window onto the opposite wall, the crumbling white plaster reflecting back diffuse, butter-yellow light all over everything in the room. A faint warm breeze stirred the air.

He rolled over yawning, gently pushing the Soldier's arm down, off his waist. The older man grunted slightly and opened his eyes, peering at the Scout from where his head was half-hidden under a pillow. The man's whole body was covered with pillows, the sheets kicked down around his knees. The eye that regarded the Scout was squinty and slightly bloodshot.

The Scout laughed. "Go back to sleep, Solly. I just gotta pee, is all."  
The Soldier grunted, then glanced at the other side of the bed. "Engie?"  
"He's up already. I think it was his turn to make breakfast today."

The Soldier yawned, then, and nodded. The Scout snickered and burrowed down through the pillows to where he was, pressing a kiss to the older man's jaw, his cheeks, his lips.  
The floor under his feet was cooler than the summer-hot air as he stood up, his shirt already sticking to the hollow between his shoulderblades. Jesus, Gold Rush was hot.

 

The Sniper was walking down the hall, plucking at the collar of his half-unbuttoned shirt and fanning himself with his hat. The older man gestured for him to come closer, and gave him a kiss that tasted like coffee and someone else's musk, so much so that he held onto the Australian's shirt and just soft of huffed the other man's breath, pressed close against him.

The Sniper gave him a little swat on the ass after a minute, startling a laugh out of the Scout and making the older man shake his head, smirking. The Scout continued into the mess. 

 

If the rest of the base was just starting to warm up, the kitchen was already dog-hot. The three fans spinning over the table seemed to be nothing but mocking decorations; even the smaller fan wedged into one of the open windows didn't seem to be doing anything. On the wall right next to the hallway doors, the forms and notes tacked onto the corkboard seemed to be sagging in the heat. 

The Spy was already in the kitchen, humming and ironing shirts at the ironing board set up in the corner between the table and the big window that overlooked the yard. In between making passes with the iron, he took sips of coffee out of a chipped mug that said, in big Western-style block print, 'Hope You Had a Great Time in Bee Cave', and when he saw the Scout, his eyes' edges got all soft and crinkly. 

"Lapin," he said.  
"Mornin', Spy," Scout said, smiling. 

Engie was the one at the stove already, in nothing but a pair of boxer-briefs and an A-shirt. His goggles hung aroung his neck, and he was humming quietly, standing with one hand on his hip and his other holding a spatula. He was watching a skillet. 

To one side of the stove, there was a bowl of creamy yellow-white batter with a ladle sticking out of it; to the other side, a pie tin with a plate inverted over it.  
The Scout sidled up to the stove, his hand going out towards the pie tin on the countertop as he spoke.

"Smells good, Engie. Pancakes?"  
"Yessir. Ham steaks, scrambled eggs, and biscuits're in a pan in the stove." then, when the Scout started to lift up the plate, he swatted his hand lightly.  
"None of that, now! You can get your breakfast after you've washed up." He looked the Scout up and down, grining. "Goodness knows you worked up enough of a sweat last night."

"Not my fault my old men keep putting me through workouts. I'm such a good guy, ain't I?"  
He dodged the Engineer's playful swipe.  
"All right, already! I'm goin', I'm goin'," he said.

But he stole a kiss first, his arms around the Engineer's pudgy middle, smelling his cleam smell of soap and chalk and ink: he'd already showered.  
The Scout pulled away and continued through the kitchen, out the doors on the other end.

 

The Pyro was sitting on a crate in the doorway of their room, and playing a guitar that was very badly out of tune. The Scout stopped in his tracks.  
The Pyro blew him a kiss. 

The Scout pretended he'd been shot through the heart; he staggered dramatically back against the wall, clutching his chest, and sank to his knees.  
The Pyro clapped their hands and kicked their legs, delighted. 

The Scout straightened back up, laughing a little, and pretended to struggle to pull something out of his chest. He took the pinch of nothing and pretended to put it in the invisble breast pocket of his t-shirt, patting it to make sure it was settled.

The Pyro bashfully shielded their face with one hand, and waved at the Scout with the other. The Scout waved goodbye and trotted down the hallway, whistling. 

 

There were muffled sounds coming from behind the Demoman's door--creak of bed-springs and someone walking over weathered floorboards in heavy boots--or, well, one heavy boot. There was a thud and then two sets of laughter. 

The Scout sighed and rolled his eyes, grinning a little. He knocked on the door twice. "Yo, Demo. It's about to be nine, and you know the Spies' camera-jammers only work until then. Might wanna send your buddy home before the cameras come back on an' Spy an' Engie have to scramble the security footage. Again."

The door opened a crack, and he caught a flutter of blue-white shirt over the Demoman's shoulder as he leaned out. "Five more minutes," he said.  
The Scout held up his hands. "Okay, yeah, sure, whatever you want. Just remember, it ain't _our_ asses on the line, man!"  
"Don't be such a git, boy. Do I look daft enough to make the same mistake twice?"  
The Scout snorted. "Do I haveta answer that question? 'Cause you hit me the last time I did."

The Demoman gave him a little push, both of them laughing. But then he caught the Scout by the shoulder and pulled him closer, and for a minute they stood nuzzling each other's faces, the Demoman's callused hand stroking the soft, velvety hairs on the back of his neck. The older man's lips were gentle on his forehead.  
"Thanks for the wakeup call, laddie. I'll have this great..." he turned his head and looked over at his shoulder. 

The BLU Soldier was standing off to the side of the Demoman's mussed bed, his unbuttoned shirt flapping open as he tried to pull on one of his boots. The Soldier gave them both a sheepish look, then grabbed his helmet off the bedpost and put it on slowly, shyly.  
"I'll have this great laddie out of here in a bit. Thanks, Scout."

The Scout smiled at him a moment--a real smile, soft at the edges, the kind of smile he only gave his guys--and then he gently cuffed the Demoman's shoulder.  
"Yer welcome. But you know you're gonna owe me!"  
"Oh, aye. D'ye know...suppose next time I run it by me lad, see what he thinks about you joinin' us?" the Demoman gave him a broad one-eyed wink. " _If_ you behave yerself."  
The Scout threw his arms wide, feigning insult. "What, me? Don't I always?"

 

And by then his need to pee was serious, more than just the vague urge that had woken him up. He went down the stairs and around the corner to the bathrooms, where the Medic and the Heavy's voices echoed off the tiles, and the air was warm and pleasantly sticky and smelled of rose-scented soap.

The Scout stood at one of the urinals, listening to their voices echoing as they sang--something in Russian, which always sounded like such a happy language when they were speaking it together. They kept puncutating the song with moments when the Heavy would yelp, laugh, and then say, in chiding tones, "Doktor!"  
The Scout only smiled. Saturday mornings in Gold Rush, he thought.

He washed his hands and went back through the mess, where the Engineer pressed a plate of food into his hands, and went collecting kisses on his way back to their room. 

The Soldier was dead-asleep again, one arm thrown over the empty expanse of bed that the Scout and the Engineer had vacated. The Scout set the plate on the night table and slid back in next to Soldier, pillowing his arm on the other man's arm. And drifted off into a warm, musk-sweet sleep, thinking languid thoughts of waking later in the day to repeat everything all over again.


	2. Nighttime Noises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short fic about the RED team's nighttime habits in winter-time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is A Short Thing. A Really Short Thing. Short, as in, don't blink, you'll miss it! Buuut I had a series of lingering mental images that made me smile, so I jotted them down. 
> 
> Pick a winter map--any winter map! (As long as there are train tracks through or near it.)  
> Originally set in Viaduct, but did you know the train tracks don't actually cross the map? Yeah! The 'bridge' doesn't go anywhere on one side. So weird. So uh. Pretend it does? I know I did!

It is three in the morning on the dot.  
They have all been listening to the distant, low howl of the train’s air horn for fifteen minutes, along with the encroaching rumble of diesel engines.

The Medic sits up, yawning, and presses a kiss to the corner of the Heavy’s jaw.  
The Russian leans over and turns their record player on. After a moment, he turns the volume up. They settle back in bed, the Heavy gently rubbing one massive hand across the Medic’s shoulders as he settles back down to go back to sleep. 

Across the base, the Scout flings back his uppermost coverlet, kicks his legs free of the sheets up to his knees, and slides his hand into his shorts. He reaches out with his other hand to grab the bedpost, muttering softly under his breath, glad the train’s noise hides it.

Down the hall from him, the Soldier is alternately scolding and trying to comfort the three anxious raccoons currently hiding under his bed. He has tried cream cheese, cottage cheese, and mayonnaise, but nothing will convince them to leave their sanctuary.  
He makes a pallet on the floor and lies down, his head propped on a rolled up surplus blanket. He is determined to show solidarity for his troops. 

The Pyro has been petting the Engineer’s (organic) hand and trying to convince him to get out of bed to watch the train pass with them for the last twenty minutes. The Engineer has no idea how the Pyro’s sense of time is so accurate; there are no clocks or timetelling devices of any kind in their over-decorated bedroom. Finally he sighs and acquiesces, sitting up and stuffing his feet into his slippers, and tries not to smile too widely when the Pyro shouts with happiness and runs over to the window to press their face against the glass.

The Demoman is slouched comfortably in an armchair in his room. He has been on the phone for an hour already, chatting with someone in another base. It is a private line that was incredibly expensive, and he reminds himself mentally to pay the Spy back with some of his _good_ scotch for securing the line.  
He smiles as the ‘other someone’ says something, the other man’s voice loud in the receiver.

In his well-furnished, soundproofed bedroom, the Spy feels only the slight vibrations. He sighs and rolls over, annoyed but resigned. He considers making himself (another) nightcap, but decides against it. Booze-mouth was not a pleasant sensation to wake up to.

Out in his camper, the Sniper is fast asleep with foam earplugs stuffed into both ears. He has a bulky, cozy wool blanket pulled up to his chin and one hand resting on his stomach, outside of the blanket. His hand will be cold and stiff in the morning. The Scout will rib him for it, and the Medic will express sincere concern about his health and circulation, and will offer to replace said hand whenever he likes. The Sniper will politely decline.

But all that will be later. For now, the team just rests, the train slowly rumbling by, to leave in its wake a gradual drift back to silence, and contented sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hope you enjoyed reading. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hahaha...this was all the product of an overgrown idea from an ask I saw on the Imagine Scout tumblr...
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Comments are love ~ <3


End file.
